Chronicles of the Untalented

The ever-dim sky hadn't changed, and yet… the world felt brighter.

Silas stood still for a long moment, just past the cathedral's steps, watching people move through the narrow walkways that had become festival paths. Scraps of dyed cloth fluttered above, strung between homes and street posts. Lanterns—paper-thin and flickering with low magical flame—danced in the air like fireflies stitched to strings.

He hadn't meant to smile.

But it happened anyway.

A small, uninvited curl at the edge of his lips that grew the longer he stood there. No priests in his path. No monsters at his back. Just the scent of roasted roots, the sound of hand drums and carved wooden flutes, and the sight of people—real people—gathered for something other than survival.

He stepped into it slowly.

Children raced between legs, laughing with faces dusted in ash from festival games. A woman stirred a pot of thick stew that smelled of turnip and salt-beast. Old men shared thin cuts of fruit like it was gold, and a one-eyed blacksmith pressed a melted coin into the palm of a boy who'd handed over a carved effigy offering.

Velira caught up to him near a stall where people were placing small tributes—burnt flowers, broken tools, scraps of handwritten notes—into a wooden basin.

"Teravhan Golyten," she said softly, seeing where his eyes were. "The one who first carved fire from stone. We thank him for what little we have, and promise not to waste it."

Silas watched a girl place a cracked bowl into the basin and whisper something before stepping back with a proud smile. It wasn't a grand altar. There were no golden lights, no choirs. Just a basin, filled with remnants of survival. And love.

Silas whispered, more to himself than her, "They're really giving what little they have."

Velira nodded. "That's what makes it matter."

He looked down at his own hands. Empty.

And yet—for the first time in a long while—they didn't feel empty.

---

Later, as the crowd swelled and music began again, Velira tugged his arm.

"Come on," she said, grinning. "I'm not letting you sulk through a festival."

"I'm not sulking," he protested weakly.

She gave him a look.

"…Okay, maybe a little."

She pulled him toward a group of dancers spinning around the fire pit in the open square. It wasn't formal dancing—just stomps, twists, claps, and the occasional shouted lyric from old songs barely remembered.

"Wait," he said, pulling back. "I don't—"

Velira didn't wait. She grabbed his hand and yanked.

He stumbled into the ring of dancers, nearly tripping over his own foot, and she laughed. He laughed too—at himself, at the absurdity of it. He let go of the hesitation. Let go of the shadow clinging to his thoughts.

And he danced.

Not well. Not gracefully. But honestly.

The firelight flickered off her eyes as she spun beside him. For a moment, the city didn't feel broken. The wounds of yesterday didn't throb quite as much. The horrors of refinement, the grief, the pressure—none of it could reach him here.

In the brief, flickering glow of laughter and music…

Silas was happy.